


Doubletap

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dream Bubble, F/M, First Time, Half-Dead Sollux, M/M, Multi, PWP, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 11:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You feel the shift in the air behind you as someone else approaches, but you don't get up. You'll waste anyone who tries to fuck with you right now.</p>
<p>"Hot damn," says a voice almost but not quite like Terezi's. "Double trouble, huh?"</p>
<p>Your dancestor snickers, and you look up as dancestor Pyrope swaggers around into view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubletap

**Author's Note:**

> From a tumblr prompt by luciidcatnap! Because it's true, Captorcest is good but Captula is double plus good.

You think you want to meet him. Probably you'll be sorry as soon as it happens, because that's how you roll, but you go looking through the bubbles anyway. AA points you in the right direction, but she says her encounters with her own dancestor were kind of a mess and she wants to sit this one out. That's fine. You don't need grubsitting.

You find him in this weird Troll Stepford dream bubble, all neat lawnrings and fresh-painted hives, broad sidewalks and neat sets of stairs, and he's grinding his skateboard down a rail. He's wearing a flashy jumpsuit and a helmet, and even at a distance you can tell he's taller than you, broader through the shoulders, closer to adult sized than you got before doom caught up with you. You watch, feeling a little awkward, a little like a dumb half-grown wiggler. He does this cool as hell kickflip off the end of the rail...

And lands on his face.

You flinch. "Ow," you say. "What the fuck, asshole, why didn't you catch yourself with your psionics?"

He sits up and launches into a tirade you can barely parse, and you thought KK had gotten you _well trained_ in making sense of people's ragegasms. Your dancestor lisps and slurs worse than you ever have, though, and as a result mostly all you're getting from his foaming at the mouth is that he's mad.

"Dude, chill the fuck out," you say, floating over close enough to peer down at him. "It was just a question."

"Sorry," he says, ducking his head. "I'm sorry." That you can at least understand, mangled as it is.

You're starting to feel really weird about this. "Seriously, just chill." You let your feet touch the ground, and then you ask a question that you know you're going to regret even as the words leave your mouth. "What's wrong with you?"

He laughs, and if you sound half that annoying no wonder people always hate you. "Skullfuckin wrecked," is what you think he says. He fumbles at the buckle of his helmet, clumsy, and eventually manages to pull it off. It rolls away into the grass, and he pushes both hands into his hair—a fluffy mess of loose curls, like yours would be if you didn't keep it viciously trimmed short and aggressively weighted down with styling shit. He pushes those curls back off his face and looks up at you.

"Holy shit," you breathe. You sink to your knees, just staring. You were expecting the blank white eyes. You've met dead people before. You weren't expecting the scarring, the _burn marks_ that radiate from his eye sockets. "Holy shit, what happened?"

Wow, wrong question. He flips out again, teeth bared and volume cranked up to eleven, and you can't make sense of any of it. All you've got is, he's fucked up and miserable in a way that makes you feel like you got off easy.

"Ssshh, chill out," you say, dead sure you're doing it wrong but not sure what else you could try. He's going to hurt himself and you don't want to see that, much less cause it. "Stop, okay? Stop. I'm sorry." You put your hands on his shoulders to try to get through to him and it's second nature to back up the physical gesture with a crackle of psionic power, especially with someone bigger than you.

It makes him cry, though, and then you feel like even more of an asshole. "Pailhumping dribbling shitmaggot," he says, and you're not sure if he's calling you names or just cursing his shitty life. "Miss that. Fffuck."

You feel sick. "Ssshh," you say. "Just keep breathing, asshole." You have no idea what you're doing. You were always the one who needed this shit—when you stepped up to take care of Aradia, it was always more in the _wow, no, maybe you shouldn't do that stupidly dangerous thing?_ sense than the _let me help with your gross feelings_ sense. This is so fucked up. You thought the Beforans had it easy, compared to you guys, but it would just figure that your particular bloodline was the horrible exception to that rule.

You climb into your dancestor's lap, because the contact seems to help, and hold onto him. The pair of you rock there together for a minute, and you curl your hands around his horns to muffle the input he's getting from them—if he's used to having them half-covered under that helmet, the extra stimulus now probably isn't helping at all.

"Shitfuck," he mumbles into your shoulder.

"Yeah," you have to agree. "You can say that again." He giggles, and the awful knot in your bilesac eases up a little.

You feel the shift in the air behind you as someone else approaches, but you don't get up. You'll waste anyone who tries to fuck with you right now.

"Hot damn," says a voice almost but not quite like Terezi's. "Double trouble, huh?"

Your dancestor snickers, and you look up as dancestor Pyrope swaggers around into view. Your jaw drops. You can see similarities with Terezi—the horns, obviously, and the sharp crook of her smile—but she has curves in places that Terezi seriously didn't the last time you saw her, and her hair falls thick and shining down to the middle of her back.

"Tulip!" your dancestor says happily, apparently even quicker to shrug off moods than you are. "Hey, babe."

"Hey yourself, rude boy," she says with a grin. "I hope you're not getting up to sexy business without me."

"What, no," you say, "it's nothing like that, it's—it's fucking pale, if anything."

"Too pale for pails," your dancestor says mournfully.

Pyrope sticks her lip out in a big exaggerated pout. "Aw, does it have to be? Sounds like a waste of a good opportunity to me!" She winks at you. "Especially if you've got the dualism thing going on too."

"Tula's the breast fuckin' matesprit there is," your dancestor says.

You double-take at him, not sure whether you should be more stunned that a loser like you managed to hook up with a babe like her or more aggrieved that he apparently just made a terrible pun about her rumble spheres.

"Hi, babe," Pyrope says, holding out a hand to you. "Latula Pyrope."

"Sollux," you say as you take it. "Uh, Captor. As you've already noticed."

"I'm Mituna," your dancestor tells you, and Latula starts laughing.

"Dang, you got this far without even trading names?" she says. "I mean, I knew my boy here was feisty, but I guess it's in the blood, huh?"

You're blushing so hard you're probably radioactive and glowing. You're sitting in your fucked-up dancestor's lap and his ludicrously hot matesprit appears to think you should make out. You could just—wait, no. "It occurs to me," you say, "that I can't actually die of shame at this point."

Mituna starts laughing his (your) godawful stupid laugh, and then kisses you before you can come up with a coherent complaint. You... stop thinking about complaints. You got the chance to kiss FF a few times during the game and it was great, but this is like, you guys were working your way through the tutorial and Mituna is going for the achievements on hard mode. Whatever else is wrong with him, he knows how to ruin you with a kiss. His forked tongue flickers against yours and his ragged fangs catch your lip just barely hard enough to feel, and you feel like you're made of static all the way through your nervous system.

You squirm in his lap as your junk starts to swell and pulse in response to the way he pushes all your buttons. You had no idea the nape of your neck was an erogenous zone, but when his claws ghost over it you writhe. He tugs experimentally on the hem of your shirt, and you make a tiny warning growl.

"No?" Latula asks from right behind you—shit, that's her breath, right there where he was touching. "Be pretty rad to get a good look at you, babe."

"Fuck," you gasp, throwing your head back as Mituna starts teaching you how good it feels to have your throat bitten. "W-why would you—I mean, shit, you have _this_ ," you say, your hands on Mituna's much-broader shoulders. "Not like I can measure up to that."

She bites your nape and you choke, incapable of arguing with your nerves lighting up like this. "Maybe I'd like a little variety," Latula says. "A little contrast."

"You guys are, are going to ruin me, aren't you?" you ask.

"If you let us," Latula says.

"Ff youc'n take it," Mituna amends.

"Fuck you, you smug shit," you say, and he grins because that was a yes and he can apparently tell. You pull the hem of your shirt up with your powers, and then Latula catches it in her hands so you let go. If a hot older girl wants to strip you, the fuck are you complaining for?

She tugs your shirt off over your head and Mituna is trying to get your pants undone, but his hands are clumsy and shaking, and he's tensing up under you. He hisses, spitting something that's more like wiggler clicks than actual words, and his shoulders shake. You're suddenly queasy and not sure about this at all.

Latula reaches around you and wraps her hand around his wrist, holding on. "It's cool, Tuna," she says. "Take two deep breaths and think chill thoughts."

Mituna goes still and takes her advice, and while he's calming down Latula undoes your jeans. You put a hand on his cheek, a little nervous and still fighting down your own instinctive unease. You could have wound up like him, couldn't you? You're fucking _lucky_ you wound up half-dead and weird. You don't like to think about how much it would have destroyed you to have your brain go haywire and glitchy like that.

Then he turns his head and sucks two of your fingers into his mouth, tongue-tips curling separately around each one, and you think about how that would feel on your bulge—his must be split, too; he must be showing off specifically for that reason—and your "depressing shit" mental subroutine gets thoroughly interrupted. "Fuck," you say.

"We'll get there," Latula says, tugging your pants and your boxers down together, and Mituna snickers. You make a hideously embarrassing noise.

They wrestle you out of Mituna's lap and out of your clothes and you're nervous as hell, dripping like the eager virgin you are as your dancestor presses your knees apart. Your bulge lashes against your belly, leaving damp smears against your skin, the halves twining together and then separating again.

Mituna leans down, sticks his forked tongue out far enough for you to get a damn good look at it, and licks an excruciatingly slow path up the wet, swollen slit of your nook. You curse, letting off instinctive, nervous sparks as he gives you a wide, fangy grin and does it again. You're diving right into the kinky end of the pool, aren't you? No tab a, slot b crap here. Instead Mituna hooks your knees over his shoulders and buries his face between your thighs, lapping at your nook and purring as if he likes the way you taste.

He pushes his tongue up _into_ you, lean and flexible, and hums at your incoherence. One of his hands presses your bulge down against your belly and you curl around his fingers, squeezing. How is he _doing_ this to you? You want to hate him for being so good at it, except that you're distracted by trying not to embarrass yourself by begging.

"Oh damn, that's hot," Latula says. You look over at the sound of her voice and she's watching you, her jumpsuit open straight down the front and one hand moving between her thighs.

"Holy _fuck_ ," you gasp. Your nook gives a convulsive little shudder around Mituna's tongue and you'd be arching into his mouth if he'd left you with any leverage at all. Your dancestor is eating your nook and his matesprit is jerking off while she watches you come apart in his mouth and wow that's it you're peaking, flooding his mouth and sobbing for breath as you come.

Mituna sits up, golden fluid smeared down his chin. "Honey shot," he says with a grin, and licks his lips.

"Oh my god, shut up," you say, throwing an arm over your eyes like you could block out how ridiculous he is. He just snickers at you.

A second later you hear laughter and the shift of cloth, and you shift your arm enough that you can peek. They're kissing, sloppy and wet, like Latula doesn't care that your fluids are all over Mituna's face. She's peeling him out of his jumpsuit and you're both impressed by and envious of what you see. His thoracic musculature is developed in a way you can't imagine yours being, even if you'd gotten the extra three sweeps of life that he did. It looks good on him. He gets stuck in his sleeve at one point and growls at it in frustration, and she laughs, and you don't even want to kill her for it. It's gentle laughter, and she's still helping him, squeaking and squirming when he gets enough equilibrium back to tickle her. They just _like_ each other so much.

You've almost convinced yourself that maybe you should just go, and leave them to it, when they finally stop sucking face and look up at you. His hair is still in his face and she's wearing those shades, so you can't see their eyes, but you can see the sharp points of their teeth bared in matching grins. "Come here, babe," Latula says. You do.

She kisses you, and that's a whole new experience all over again. Her mouth is soft and lush and she giggles when you run your fingers through her hair, her hands teasing over your bare skin. She smells good. She feels good. You want round two.

Mituna takes you by the shoulder and pushes you down. Your face brushes Latula's rumble spheres and he keeps pushing you further, holy fuck, you could resist with your psionics if you wanted to but you'd regret it. "Wanna see you with a bulge stuffed down your protein chute," your dancestor slurs, and you whine.

Latula's bulge twines between her thighs, rich dripping teal against the red of her open jumpsuit—and it's _pierced_ , holy fuck. She has two bright metal bars set beneath the skin, shiny beads bracketing the sensitive central ridge. You're fucking breathless for a second. You can't imagine how bad that must have hurt.

Pyropes: hardcore terrifying in any universe.

But it's hot, for all that it makes you feel a little uneasy in your skin. You lick the ridge, and you think you can feel the shafts of those bars beneath the column of nerves. You shudder, and Latula purrs. Hot damn, you could get used to provoking sounds like that.

Her bulge eels its way into your mouth and you try to guard your teeth with your lips as best you can, thinking about the way this shit works in porn and how badly you would _not_ want teeth there. You can feel her piercings slide against your tongue as she works her way in deeper, feeding it to you until the full length is buried down your throat, squirming there so that you can't help swallowing—so that you can't _stop_ swallowing, your reflexes telling you that you need to fight to take in this thing that's resisting being devoured.

You try to pull back just to catch your breath a little but Latula holds you down so you can't actually go anywhere. You keen in your throat, static discharging over your skin, and spread your knees. You're dripping down the insides of your thighs, your bulges squirming for attention.

"Y'wanna get stuffed both ways?" Mituna asks, as if you could answer. As if there's any question what your answer would _be_. You grab for him, clumsy, trying to shove him around behind you, and he laughs.

"Don't tease, babe, that's not cool," Latula says, gently, and you'd laugh if you could because it's so weird to think that she's still worried about being nice enough to you when her bulge is sheath-deep in your throat and it just makes you crave more.

Mituna's hips press up flush against your ass, and his bulges slide between your legs, teasing the lips of your nook. You whimper, pushing back toward him, your bulges coiling back to meet his. "Can't even beg f'rit," he says with exaggerated fake sympathy.

You raise one hand long enough to flip him off. Nope, can't beg for it, too busy deepthroating his matesprit. They both laugh, but kindly like you're in on the joke with them, and then one of Mituna's bulges slides up into your sopping nook. It's not all that thick—your mutation is a bifurcation of the one normal bulge, not the addition of a second full-size one—but it gets into you _deep_ , and you whimper. His other half tangles with yours so you can squeeze each other, and this has rapidly gone from frustrating to amazing.

Latula's starting to make some pretty impressive noises now, too, like the helpless clutch and ripple of your throat around her bulge is doing it for her. God, you're on your hands and knees getting fucked in your mouth and your nook at the same time, like—like you're the conduit between them, carrying their energy back and forth, completing their circuit.

You pull your concentration together enough to run a mild jolt of power up the lips of her nook and she _howls_ —and she's so far down your throat already that you don't even really process the fact that she's coming until your reflexive swallowing makes something chilly slide down to settle in your stomach. Holy shit. Holy _shit_. You don't have as many weird fetishy hangups as some of the people you know but Latula just _came down your throat_.

She pulls out and there's a thin strand of green fluid stretching from your lip to her bulge, a mix of your spit and her slurry. You whine at having your mouth empty and then you feel like a huge pervert for wanting it back. It's hot as fuck, though, being a huge pervert. You're not sorry at all right now.

Mituna pulls you back against him and bites your shoulder, his teeth scraping instead of sinking in, scoring lines of raw heat across your skin. The lash of his bulge inside you makes you growl and shiver, your hands clamped around his wrists, your nook thrumming and pulsing. You feel it when _he_ starts to come, the sudden pumping fullness inside you, the splash of his material over your twining bulges, and the strange new pressure pushes you over, too, makes you bear down around him and squeeze tight and gush all over you both, sticky wet and glorious.

You slump back against him, dizzy and pleased. You giggle a little. "Twice," you say happily.

"Heh," Mituna says. He licks your aural shell. "Joke's on you, bulgewrangler. We're not done."

"What?" you ask, which isn't your brightest moment. He hasn't pulled out of you, though his bulge has mostly gone still.

"You don't really think you're the only one who wants to doubletap some fine Captor ass here, do you?" Latula asks with a grin. Mituna snickers.

Wow, fuck. "Pretty sure I'm at least as interested in fine Pyrope ass," you say, because seriously she is a _babe_ and you know she knows it but you want to be sure she knows you know it, too. You might be feeling a little stupid on your own brain chemicals right now.

"Damn good thing, too," Latula says. She skins the rest of the way out of her jumpsuit and they're going to kill you the rest of the way, you think. You don't even really mind a whole lot. "Haul him on over here, 'Tuna."

Your dancestor half-drags and half-shoves you over into his matesprit's lap, and she spreads her legs to settle your skinny hips between them, and you think you'll make an exception to your general binary preferences. Three is a good number. You like three. You like three a lot.


End file.
